The Beginning

I awoke from a deep slumber, finding myself lying on a cold bed. Beside me, Celestia slept, her features softened by rest. I lay still, watching her without disturbing the silence, until she gradually stirred. 

Still lost in reverie, I began examining my body. To my near-disbelief, I discovered I could move my toes. A flicker of fascination coursed through my mind, but I quickly regained my habitual expression—cold, distant, unreadable. 

My memory drifted back to the moment I rejected the serum; the agony of that decision still pulsed within me like a cruel reminder. I flexed my feet cautiously, as if testing a nearly forgotten instinct, but dismissed the notion that pain alone could unlock a new beginning. 

Then she woke. 

Celestia's eyes opened slowly, locking onto mine without interrupting the silent current of whatever revelation I seemed to embody. 

"Elyon…" she whispered, her voice tinged with awe and gratitude for the miracle of my restored mobility. 

Absorbed in this newfound motion, I murmured back: 

"Nael…!" 

The exchange carried a subtle tension. I loathed being called Elyon—the name she insisted on. To me, *Nael* was the only identity that made sense, the name I had chosen for myself. 

Celestia narrowed her eyes, disbelief etched into her features. Firmly, she repeated: 

"Elyon." 

She seemed unwilling to accept any other designation, as if the name bore an immutable weight, something never meant to be altered. 

I met her gaze with the cold, calculating stare that defined me, and she, unflinching, pressed: 

"Elyon, whether you like it or not, you will always be Elyon." 

Her tone brooked no argument; it was the only truth she acknowledged. 

A weighted silence stretched between us. I lifted my eyes, fixing her with my trademark indifference, yet a thread of resignation seeped into my voice: 

"I did not choose that name, and you know it." 

She squinted, her gaze unyielding, as though the name were the sole unbreakable tether between who we were and who we were meant to be. 

"Elyon, whether you like it or not… That is the name I gave you. You will never cease to be Elyon—*my* Elyon." Her voice, firm and laced with quiet resolve, echoed through the room, blending affection and discipline. 

Without breaking eye contact, I redirected the conversation to the question burning in my mind: 

"How long was I unconscious?" 

"Not long—just a day!" she replied, her solemn expression contrasting with the lightness of her words. "But can you tell me *why* you lost consciousness?" 

"Does it matter?" My tone was clipped, each syllable programmed to discard sentiment. 

"Yes, it does!" she countered, her eyes piercing mine, heavy with concern. 

"I sought to stimulate my stem cells to restore mobility… and it seems I succeeded." I explained, science and necessity shaping each syllable. 

She leaned forward slightly, almost pleading: 

"Promise me one thing: you will never attempt this again." 

I hesitated briefly—trivializing the request, yet my words sufficed to placate her unease: 

"If it matters so much to you, I'll promise." 

Silence settled once more, thick and suffocating, as rain tapped softly against the windows outside. Here, at the crossroads of who I had been and who I might yet become, the distance between us seemed measured only by names and promises—a fragile yet unbreakable bond of blood and memory. 

I averted my gaze to the shadows dancing on the walls, absorbing the weight of our shared history. Loneliness and pain intertwined, yet somehow, this restrained exchange revealed something I was reluctant to admit: a blood tie that, despite everything, would never fade. 

The night wore on, and though I had regained mobility—my twitching toes a reminder that I could still feel—the void within remained unchanged. In that charged space, amid whispers of promises and the pale glow of lights, reality asserted itself: I was more than a reanimated body; I was the sum of all I had lost and all I still sought to reclaim. 

And so, at this junction between past and potential, the truth of my name loomed undeniable—a reminder that no matter how I strove to transform, parts of me could never be rewritten. 

---

Celestia clutched the watch in her hands, its cold metal reflecting the corridor's light. This was no ordinary timepiece—it tracked every heartbeat and, crucially, every fluctuation in *his* physical state. The last time I saw it, the erratic dial had already betrayed that something was wrong. Without hesitation, I called Mary. 

"He's unconscious again. I need to see him." Her voice on the other end was steady, restrained. 

I rushed to the lab. Upon entering, I found him lying on the bed, motionless, silence saturating the room like a warning. Unclear what had transpired, I lifted him and carried him home. I could no longer let him lose himself in that sterile maze of experiments. 

Back at the mansion, I sat by his bedside. The watch ticked with precision, each second freighted with dread. Exhaustion prevailed, and I drifted asleep, the soft patter of rain outside blending with the distant hum of technology. 

Hours later, I awoke to his subtle movements. His feet, once lifeless, began to shift slowly. A shiver raced down my spine—this was no mere recovery; it was a private miracle. 

"My baby…" I murmured, scarcely aware the words had escaped. 

"You did it… You regained your legs." My voice, louder now, carried an emotion I had long suppressed. 

As he strained to flex his toes, my heart swelled with silent, profound joy. Each slight motion was a victory; each muscle twitch, a promise of tomorrow. 

"I won't abandon you, my little one—my legacy," I whispered, eyes glistening yet fixed on his progress. 

In that moment, as he wrestled with the silence of recovery, I realized this day was among the happiest of my life. The watch continued its count, but now each tick reminded me he was alive—his body responding, hope made tangible. 

Even as my words wavered between emotion and vulnerability, I knew I would never cease fighting by his side. 

"You are my miracle, Elyon," I finally declared. The name, no matter his preference, resonated as a vow for a future finally worth living. 

---

Days had passed since I awoke. I expected only limited mobility and minor regeneration, but reality proved far more intense. My strength, speed, agility, and even mental processing—all tripled. Regeneration was so swift that a gunshot wound healed within seconds. My physique, now robust and defined, retained a trace of leanness, yet I stood taller, my hair growing into a renewed texture. My once-dull skin now glowed with a subtle sheen, and my eyes—like living auroras—burned brighter. Streaks of black now threaded my formerly snow-white hair, as if defying time itself. 

I felt strange, almost narcissistic, confronting this new reflection. Ever stoic, I resolved to dress like a nerd—a fleeting experiment in difference, even as my perennial detachment lingered. 

Celestia and I inched forward in our relationship. Our conversations grew less frigid, though still guarded, yet progress was undeniable. That evening, dinner reunited us at the mansion. 

"Elyon, come eat!" Her voice, firm yet comforting, rang down the hall, clinging to the name I resisted. 

I rose and descended the stairs with measured steps, my footfalls echoing through the shadow-draped room warmed by soft light. Seated at the table, Celestia arranged the cutlery precisely and broached the subject: 

"So, what do you think? Private school, or public if you prefer?" Her eyes sought more than a rote reply. 

I let slip a dry retort: 

"Don't care." 

She arched a brow, setting down her fork with a subtle clink. 

"Excuse me?" she asked, irritation laced with worry. 

Quickly, to defuse the tension, I offered: 

"The food's delicious." 

But the diversion failed. 

"Don't evade the question, *Nael*," she insisted, her gaze ironclad. 

Expression unchanging, I replied: 

"Do as you like." 

She crossed her arms, decreeing: 

"You *will* attend school next year. This isn't a request." 

Dinner continued with talks of subjects and the inevitable return to college—a necessary evil I begrudged but accepted as part of life's trajectory. 

Between bites, amid the aroma of food and the clink of silverware, Celestia again invoked the name she clung to: 

"Elyon, you know I won't accept another name…" 

I sighed, meeting her with a cold stare that belied internal upheaval. 

"I asked you to adopt me as Nael Supremium," I stated, my voice arid yet resolute. 

She studied me at length, as if dissecting each syllable. 

"Elyon, you may wish otherwise… But to me, you will always be Elyon." 

Silence fell, heavy and brief, as the last golden twilight rays filtered through the windows. 

The new year loomed, and amid this seemingly mundane routine, intuition whispered that coming days would be anything but peaceful. Between my icy reflections and echoes of long-faded dreams, a new reality took shape—a fate of contradictions, where newfound strength and bodily resilience clashed with the weight of a past that, despite all, refused to release me. 

--- 

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